


Furtive

by Devilc



Category: Angel: the Series, Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, Crossover, Drunk Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn Battle Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:59:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean, Lindsey, a game of pool, a bottle of the old man's whiskey, and getting away with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Furtive

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle Amnesty; the prompt word is "Whiskey".  
> Thank you to M'lyn for the beta.
> 
> Legalese: SPN and Angel the Series are copyright their respective owners. This is a not for profit labor of lust, not an act of filthy lucre.

> "Furtive -- (1) done in a sly or stealthy manner; (2) obtained underhandedly, stolen"

* * *

The burn of the whiskey going down as they pass the bottle back and forth matches the burn of stubble when they kiss in between taking a belt. If it were any colder, their breath might frost, but as it is, the windows of the Impala are shrouded in mist that’s gradually going ghost white. That, and they’re far enough from the roadhouse that nobody’s going to see what they’re up to, not unless they come looking.

That’s probably not going to happen. It’s cold enough that the average person’s not going to care about that car back by the sagging chainlink fence and the kudzu-choked trees, and Dean left his dad crashed out drunk in the bed and Sam’s sound asleep and snoring because he’s 16 and starting to grow into those gigantic hands and feet of his. 

Dean wasn’t ready to turn in, he’s had insomnia something fierce this week, and he wanted something more than he could get from drinking with Dad. He tiptoed out the door the moment he was sure that his dad wouldn’t wake, and headed for the only place in this one-horse town that didn’t close as soon as the sun set.

He met Lindsey about three hours ago over a game of pool. Last call came and neither of them felt ready to call it a night.

It’s bad, wrong, and dangerous doing this, period. It gets even more so the moment that Dean opens the first few snaps of Lindsey’s shirt and sees a hint of the tattoos that must cover the rest of his body. That’s _serious_ ink. Dean wants to know, but also knows that sometimes, it’s better _not_ to know about things like that.

(The guy’s not a demon, Dean checked that the moment he thought the evening might end up here.)

The bottle is pressed back into his hand and there’s a glint in Lindsey’s blue-grey eyes, a challenge, and Dean takes the last swallow, his dick achingly hard in his jeans.

The thrill, the risk is what makes backseat car sex so damn’d good, and this right here right now is pushing all of Dean’s buttons. He releases the bottle, hears it clink as it lands somewhere in the footwell, works his fly open, and the air is almost shockingly cold against his dick, but Lindsey’s hand is warm and smooth. Lindsey may look like a country shitkicker, but his hands are not the hands of a working stiff, callused and cracked. They glide silky smooth over Dean’s flesh, and his grip is sure. He’s done this before. (Just like Dean.)

Dean’s breath comes in hitches and moans, his teeth chafe his lower lip, and the last echo of whiskey taste slides across his tongue as Lindsey darts in and kisses him again, hard, demanding, as his hand works a gloriously evil rhythm and Dean falls over the edge in a blindingly hard surge, soaking him and Lindsey.

Fuck … he likes to at least give a warning. But Lindsey chortles and says, “‘S what I love about guys like you -- you’re loaded to bursting, just waiting to pop.”

Dean laughs back, half out of relief, half out of release, and he fishes around to find something mop up the worst of the mess and eventually comes up with one of Sam’s T-shirts. He surprises both of them by asking, “Can I blow you?”

He needs it right now. Needs something salty and earthy and musky. Needs something _more_ than just the sound of Lindsey’s breath gasping into the air to counter the booze roiling away in his gut and in his brain.

The tang of Lindsey’s precum on his tongue tastes even better than stolen kisses and stolen whiskey.

Tomorrow Dean will go back to being the steadfast soldier and the dutiful son. He’ll take his lumps for lifting a bottle of the old man’s whiskey.

Lindsey gasps out a warning and jerks Dean’s head away before he can get more than just a taste.

Tonight is something different. 

There’s a look, an understanding, between them as they button, buckle and zip. Dean drives the Impala over to Lindsey’s truck and watches him get in. Sam’s shirt and the empty bottle get thrown away in the motel dumpster. Dean slips back into the room without causing so much as hitch in his dad’s breathing. Sam just mumbles something incoherent and rolls over as Dean slips beneath the covers.

Tonight is about _getting away with it_.


End file.
